


The Sheriff of Sherringford

by SilverMiko



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Arranged Marriage, Cat and Mouse, F/M, Historical, Medieval!Lock, Robin Hood AU, Romance, Sherlolly - Freeform, best of enemies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-02-01 16:08:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12708363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverMiko/pseuds/SilverMiko
Summary: Sherlock Holmes, the Sheriff of Sherringford, lives by cold pure logic and his honor, and so he carries out his service under the new King James. He has earned a fearsome reputation thanks to his icy demeanor and intelligent methods in carrying out his arrests, but one criminal continues to elude him: the hooded forest witch adored by the people and scorned by his king. In a battle of wits, it's more than just Sherlock's pride that will end up on the line.





	1. The Roles We Play

**Author's Note:**

> This was entirely inspired a a Robin Hood AU gifset by talented tumblr user @cumbercougars, found here: http://cumbercougars.tumblr.com/post/167252979419/the-sheriff-of-sherringford-sheriff-sherlock-was
> 
> I had asked in the notes if I could write a fic for this and cumbercougars said to go for it, so here we were! It was too good of an AU idea to pass up, and I'm a sucker for enemies to lovers/cat and mouse game stories.

Sherlock Holmes was many things: a son, a brother, a nobleman, and in recent years the sheriff appointed by King James of the House Moriarty. And now his latest role was bestowed upon him whether he wanted it or not; betrothed. It was the one role he had never expected to nor wanted to play, worse still that of husband. As far as he was concerned, he was married to his work and the reality was he would be a terrible spouse: he eschewed sentiment in favor of cold logic, he was never one to spare another person’s tender feelings, and was not prone, as other men were, to desire the physical. Plainly speaking, as his best mate John would say, Sherlock was possibly the biggest arsehole in the land. A pity for his intended, a distant relative of the previous king, who had about as much say in the recently mandated match as he did. It was on the orders of the king himself and as little as Sherlock liked it he could not refuse. For all his faults, Sherlock believed in honor and so he would fulfil the latest duty tasked upon him.

His family had always sworn allegiance to the crown, had always served. He would not deviate. He just had never expected this but then this new king seemed to have an odd sense of humor when it came to the Holmes family and especially Sherlock. Sometimes, in the small corner of his mind he left open to have free and rebellious thoughts, he wondered if James was almost toying with him in some sort of sick game. He had near expected the sheriff title to go to the local bailiff, Lestrade, and yet the king chose the younger Holmes brother instead. Sherlock could not say no, and he admittedly loved the thrill of deduction and solving a mystery. But what he did not love was the times where his role was of a thinly veiled brute squad acting in the name of the crowd, and not all arrests felt just.

But that was life under Moriarty monarchy these days. He had sworn fealty, taken an oath. His honor was the only decent thing left about him and he would cleave to it as tightly as he could. He would welcome his intended when she arrived six days hence to their Sherringford home, Montague Manor.

“She has some intelligence, I hear, if that at all softens the blow,” Mycroft spoke, seated in his chair by the fire as he smoked his pipe.

Sherlock paused in his step, having paced across the floor for the better part of a quarter of an hour since the letter from court had arrived. He shot his older brother a baleful look.

“I care not for her supposed wit or if she is the finest poet in all of England, I have no want of a wife,” Sherlock spat out, carding his hands through his hair in agitation. It had grown long, well past his ears. He should cut it, but it was one of the few ways he could still be free, still half-wild. His intended would just have to deal with it.

“And yet you will have one, with little purpose or knowledge of what to do with her.”

“Oh, I know exactly what lay ahead, after the ceremony she will be deposited safely away at Musgrave Hall where she shall live out her days there and I here.”

“With hundreds of miles between you.”

“Is that not the key to most happy marriages?” Sherlock asked with a mirthless smile.

Mycroft shrugged.

“I am the least qualified to answer that.”

“You’re the heir, why me?”

It was a pointless question, of course, and he knew it. As heir, it should have been Mycroft’s duty to be assigned a bride not the spare’s, but as far as King James was concerned Lord Mycroft Holmes was as inconsequential as a cow out to pasture.

“Why indeed?”

Sherlock sighed.

“I must speak with John, he’s better equipped at these things.”

“How wonderful to know Sherringford’s butcher continues to prove his worth.”

Sherlock ignored his brother’s sniping as he always did when it came to John Watson. From the moment Watson had saved Sherlock’s life years earlier in battle, the two had been fast friends. A skilled fighter and even more skilled surgeon, they had briefly lived together at Sherlock’s London home before John married his wife, Mary, and Sherlock became sheriff. If he was to be shackled in matrimony, he could at least prepare himself and go into this battle informed.

After all, Sherlock Holmes never entered a situation where he did not have the upper hand knowledge-wise.

 

***

 

It was an average afternoon at the market square, crowded and busy despite commerce being low. It was becoming dire times across the kingdom for vendor and buyer alike; with taxes rising and the rich getting richer and the common folk poorer. Even the coarsest of bread was becoming a luxury, but the people still milled about if only to pretend times were not as hard as they were. There was a comfort in pretending, in keeping up the pretense. What the crowd below failed to notice on this day was the hooded figure watching above from a low rooftop, a small grin peeking out from the shadows of the hood as slim arms raised a burlap bag up high, tipping it over and letting the glimmering contents pour out to the street below.

People would whisper for weeks later of the day the sky rained gold down upon the Sherringford market square, a spell of prosperity conjured up by the forest witch. Some said she was hundreds of years old, older than the time of the Conqueror, a defender of the poor. The nobles saw her as a pest, some disgruntled commoner breaking the law and wreaking chaos. But on that day, as coins piled up on the streets all over the square from the hands of several figures scattered across the rooftops, the villagers agreed on one thing: the forest witch was their hero and she had their loyalty without question.

So when the sheriff happened to pass through, a black-clad harbinger of the tightly-fisted rule of the king, there was no way he could control the situation. Not with dozens of townspeople booing at his arrival. The forest witch watched him take stock of what had happened, then watched him scan the rooftops until his piercing gaze narrowed in on her dark green-clad figure. Well then, it seemed today would be anything but boring for her. She grabbed an arrow and fixed a piece of paper to it, taking quick aim and watching with satisfaction as the arrow landed two feet from the sheriff’s horse, the black beast startled and kicking up. He got his horse under control and dismounted, plucking the arrow out from the earth and looking at the note attached. She could see his eyes narrow further, and as his gaze turned back towards her it was cold and predatorial. It was the face many cowered from in fear, but the forest witch felt the delicious thrill of challenge flood through her. She gave a dramatic bow and turned on her heels rapidly fleeing, knowing with the crowd below and the head start she had that there was no way the sheriff would catch up to her. She knew he knew it too, a thought that filled her with triumph, especially as she could hear his deep baritone boom out a command for the crowd to cease and desist as he attempted to wrestle back control over the people.

The forest witch never walked into these situations without all outcomes considered.

And by keeping the attention on her, the sheriff would fail to notice the other members of her merry band had already fled for the woods. She had made a distant study of this sheriff, one of her many foes, in their brief skirmishes and from hearsay. She had heard tell of him to be intelligent to an almost ruthless degree in how he carried out his investigations, had seen firsthand how cold and practical he was in his methods. He was a man more made of stone than flesh and blood. And from her limited information she knew with absolute certainty that he would not rest until he captured her, the puzzle that continued to elude him. She had been lucky thus far, had planned her schemes based on what she could predict of him and his behavior, but she knew she was dancing on the tip of the knife’s edge week by week.

Jumping down into a narrow alley she reached the blonde mare waiting for her and hopped up onto its back, riding her way out of the edge of town and into the deep dense forest. She knew the trails and paths like second nature, slowing her horse to a trot once she knew she was out of any danger of pursuit. The sheriff had been alone, likely passing through given the timing of his appearance. The memory of his cold gaze replayed through her mind, sending another delicious shiver down her spine.

“Careful, dear, with that expression one might think you’re smitten,” a coy voice drawled out.

The forest witch snapped her head towards the woman with raven hair and a red mouth leaning casually against a tree.

“Glad to see you got out of there safely, Irene.”

“Was there a doubt? Still, a shame. Barely had time to stop and admire the good sheriff’s fine face.”

“I did not think he was your type.”

“A lawman?”

“A man.”

“Well, I can still appreciate a fine specimen even with the flaw of his sex. But let’s not pretend you wouldn’t be itching to cut your hands on those cheekbones.”

“Whose cheekbones?” another voice piped up as they were joined by another cloaked figure on a horse, a middle aged man with silvering hair and dark eyes.

“It’s nothing but Irene’s nonsense,” the forest witch said sternly, “Are we in the clear?”

“Aye. Another good deed unpunished,” Gregory Lestrade, former bailiff of Sherringford, replied.

“Let’s see how his Majesty can keep his vassals in line this time. Word is the nobles to the North are restless and Wessex is not too far behind. By Michaelmas we just might see a coup.”

“And for now?” Greg asked.

“For now, we lay low and keep working in the shadows. You keep your ear to the ground. Irene keeps cozying up to courtiers," the forest witch ordered gently.

“And what will you be up to, dear witch?” Irene asked.

From beneath her hood, the forest witch sighed warily.

“Entering the lion’s den, it seems.”

Irene’s smirk fell, her face now serious.

“It is decided, then?”

“It is.”

“You need not go this alone, I can come with you.”

The forest witch shook her head. “I need you back at court.”

“And I will be close by, as always,” Greg added, the worry plainer in his face.

“I know, my friends, I know. I couldn’t ask for a finer crew.”

“Molly of the Hood and her merry men! Well, man.” Irene teased.

“You say that almost as an insult,” Greg pouted.

“I mean it as one.”

Molly took down her hood, her long brown hair cascading over her shoulders.

“Greg, you may take your leave. Be safe.”

He nodded.

“You as well. Send word if you have need of me.”

“I will. Please give your wife my regards.”

“If she is home, I will,” he said, his voice wistful. The two women watched him leave, and Irene sighed.

“Well my dear, be content in knowing no marriage will be as unhappy as that of our Gregory’s.”

“That is not a comforting thought at all under the circumstances,” Molly huffed, removing her dark green cloak and tunic as Irene pulled another set of clothes from Molly’s saddlebag, helping Molly change into her other guise.

“We all have our roles to play, Molly mine, but think of the insights you’ll glean.”

“At what cost?” she said, quietly.

From the moment the news had come from home, the weight of the world closing in on her grew tighter and tighter. Was she only on borrowed time in the end, when it came to accomplishing her goals?

“Remember what I’ve taught you and you will survive this. Look at where we are, what we’ve accomplished. The task is unsavory, but no one is more equipped than you. No one a better match.”

“I know, I know,” Molly murmured as Irene laced up her gown.

“When all else fails, remember our first rule.”

“Don’t get caught?”

“That’s the second rule, though important. Come now, you know the first rule. What is it again?”

“Fuck the king,” Molly swore, remembering. Clinging to their mission.

“Fuck the king,” Irene repeated, “and that starts with taking his pet sheriff out of the equation.”

Molly nodded, her resolve turning to steel once more. Irene was right, as she always was.

They had a mission, and this latest development was an opportunity in the right light, not a doomed sentence.

“Do I look presentable?” Molly asked, her changing complete.

“He will never know what hit him, my lady.”

 

***

 

Sherlock marched out of the stables, slamming the door harshly behind him as icy anger washed through him. He uncrumpled and read the scrap of parchment that had been tightly clenched in his hand for the dozenth time.

_Good day and Godspeed, honorable Sheriff! With regards, MH._

 

How polite the words seemed, how deceptively simple. But he saw them for what they were, a taunt. She knew when she fired off the note, that damned Molly of the Hood, that he would never be able to catch her in the market square. Sherlock Holmes _hated_ walking into a situation without the upper hand, and he was starting to guess she had figured that out. It wasn’t just a triumph for her to deliver stolen riches to the townsfolk and earn their admiration. She had control of the situation from the very start, her and her two men eluding capture knowing well and good he never had a chance.

He did not know what he hated more; that she had escaped him yet again or the inevitable letter from the king over this latest episode. He was not a man that suffered humiliation well, and while that witch had been clever thus far her luck would eventually run out. The more they met, the more clues he could piece out.

She was average height, fair-skinned, a good marksman and favored her left hand, not old but not young. Perhaps of an age to him. Slender, dexterous, clever. Too clever for a mere commoner. And it was not just random robberies she and her band of outlaws performed; he had begun to suspect they were strategically aimed attacks at certain influential nobles. It was not just about the money, he suspected it was about weakening the king’s hold. It was a theory he had yet to voice to his liege, not until he was certain.

His tempers high and mood grim, he stalked into the manor like a dark storm ready to thunder down on anyone in his path and it was in this state that he entered the hall where his brother stood, and not alone.

Had he not been distracted by the afternoon’s earlier events, he might not have forgotten what day it was.

A young woman stood next to Mycroft, her features almost plain if not for the elfish tilt of her nose. She wore a red kirtle under a stark white gown, her dark hair covered by a gold mesh and pearl encrusted caul. He could tell her eyes were also dark because they were wide and startled as she took in his sudden appearance.

“Ah brother mine, there you are. Lady Margaret, may I introduce you to my brother, Lord William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”

Sherlock said nothing, not even inclining his head in acknowledgement.

He watched the woman reign her trepidation in, a small, gentle smile forming on her face as she took a step forward.

“Bad day, was it?”

Her voice was low and soft, trying to be friendly but carrying an undercurrent of forced bravery. He was not in the mood for this or the unwanted guest, and it must have read clearly for his brother frowned, thumping his walking stick to the floor.

“Sherlock, be a gentleman and greet your betrothed properly, for Lord’s sake!”

Bad day, indeed.

 


	2. Negotiations for a Happy Marriage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sheriff of Sherringford has no want of a wife, Lady Margaret has no need of a husband, but a royal order must be followed and now the two must make plain their expectations of married life. And Sherlock is, if anything, brutally honest.

Lady Margaret Hooper’s life had been shaped and molded by fate before she was even born, or it certainly felt that way. She had never been at the center of court, never spent much time in London, and had lived a relatively comfortable life in York until a civil war during her adolescent years changed everything. Once, she was a cousin to the king. Now, she was the cousin of the dead and deposed former king, one of the last survivors of a house laid ravage to and mostly buried by the new power in the throne. Her very blood made her position in life precarious, not anything she’d done or not done and her very existence was always in danger because of politics and power grabs she cared nothing for.

She never thought she’d feel lucky that her parents had died before James’ coup, or that she had been the ward of a minor noble, Michael Stamford, and kept relatively removed from the center of things. That was, until, the new king had decided to study the family tree of his predecessor, had found that Lady Margaret Hooper was the last surviving member of a now, for all intents and purposes, dead dynasty. For a horrible set of weeks, she had panicked the new king would make a play and decree she was to marry him but it never came to pass. He seemed to have no interest in taking anyone for queen, and also it began to feel like she had become an afterthought when he had more pressing issues at hand, like unrest and potential rebellion.

Rebellion that she was having her own fair hand in, a long game she’d been playing since she had turned twenty and met Irene and later on had acquired Gregory as an ally. It was simple really; rob from the rich, take their blood money and weaken their power, give it back to the poor they extorted. By gaining the loyalty of the people, they created the myth of the forest witch and the cover under which she did her work. It had been a long game, one she’d been slowly playing at for years. The House of Moriarty hadn’t poisoned the well overnight, and it wouldn’t fall overnight either. Besides, James did not deserve the pleasure of a quick fall from grace.

It wasn’t just accident that she was the only surviving member of her house, and even if her family line died with her eventually, by God, they could and would be avenged. And so she planned, she bid her time, she made her life as Lady Margaret as inconspicuous and plain as possible. No one would suspect smiling magpie Lady Margaret could possibly be some rogue outlaw. No would ever image the slight looking woman to be so skilled with an arrow and even better with a knife. And it had all been going so well, her careful work paying off.

Until King James, it seemed, had _not_ forgotten about her or her maiden status and had decided to act upon it. But oh no, not as his bride and queen, where any children they had could potentially incite its own rebellion to get rid of him and put her child, a child from the line of the former king, on the throne. He wasn’t that stupid, she’d credit him that. Instead, he had decreed it was high time she was wed and well minded by a husband, and had just the vassal in mind.

Lord William Holmes, the _bloody_ Sheriff of Sherringford, a man who relentlessly served the crown and was one giant thorn in her side. They had never met closely face to face, always with a healthy distance between them, but now it seemed she would get closer to him than she ever expected or wanted to. When Mike had handed her the letter from court, she had wanted to rage, to burn it, to run for Scotland or Wales. But then Irene, bless her, provided Molly with much needed perspective. What better way to spy on the enemy than from within their house? The information she could gain would be invaluable, and it would further the deception she’d carefully pieced together all these years. The Sheriff’s wife an outlaw? Inconceivable! So yes, perhaps it was indeed the sword she would fall on to further her mission.

But then, as her betrothed stormed into the hall like a black cloud sucking all the light from the air, all thoughts of plans and deceptions cleared from her mind and instead a most indecent thought formed: oh, he was indeed a sword she could fall on.

She had always seen him from a distance, had always heard Irene’s offhand comments about the Sheriff's fine face and cheekbones, and had gleaned some idea of his general form and had gathered he was not an ugly man or old, perhaps a few years older than her. Now, standing before her in the same black clothes he had been wearing in the marketplace she could see how his dark hair tumbling past his ears were prone to curl, how his mouth was beautifully formed despite its scowl, how he indeed have cheekbones a maid could cut her hands upon, but it was his eyes that threatened to steal her breath from her lungs.

They were piercing and cat-like, some vibrant mix of blue and green and narrowed squarely on her as if he could see everything she ever was and had been, see right inside her. It made her shiver. Lord Williams Holmes was the handsomest man she had ever seen her life, a fact she realized was going to be quite troubling in her circumstances.

Realizing a moment later she had been staring, she offered up words that sounded rather silly even to her own ears.

“Bad day, was it?”

As if she didn’t know or hadn’t had a hand in the simmering anger and impatience that radiated off his tall (Lord, he was tall!) frame. He made no reply, merely studied her with a frown continuing to darken his beautiful face and his disdain was so obvious his brother, Lord Mycroft, tightly clipped out, “Sherlock, be a gentleman and greet your betrothed properly, for Lord’s sake!”

Sherlock, interesting. Not William? Perhaps it was a family nickname. Before she could contemplate it further, the Sheriff had taken a hold of her hand and brushed his plush, cool lips against her knuckles.

“Forgive me, my lady, my brother insists I partake in a pointless parade of pleasantries and courtly love and shower you with fair praise and sweet words. However, I am not one prone to such inane things and it would be best you know upfront the sort of man you shall marry.”

He let her hand drop and stood back up and away from her, expression bored and neutral. Of all the nerve! She had known he was not a kind man by reputation, but to be so lacking in courtesy? Well then, if they were being honest…

“Sherlock!” Lord Mycroft yelled, outraged.

Molly turned and gave Lord Mycroft a brilliant smile.

“Do not trouble yourself, Lord Holmes. I take no offense. I was under no illusions about the type of man your brother is based on reputation and it is best we enter into this knowing exactly where we stand. It is a marriage neither of us wanted but it is as the king commands and so it must be.”

At this, both Lord Mycroft and the Sheriff looked at her and blinked. If either had expected her to pout or be reduced to tears by Lord William's coldness, then they needed to learn a thing or two about the kind of woman he was marrying.

“Is that not a practical way to look at the situation, my lords?”

“Yes, yes it is Lay Margaret,” Lord Mycroft replied, clearly still taken aback. His brother said nothing, but studied her more.

“Lord William, you look like perhaps a walk would do your spirits well. Shall we take a turn of the grounds and perhaps get to know each other better?”

“Unnecessary, I already know everything I need. A maid past marrying age with a relation to the previous king and last of that house who was clearly not interesting enough to execute or imprison and yet still enough of a threat to require being kept managed distantly by the crown. You are part and parcel, Lady Margaret, a living casualty of a war where you had the misfortune to stand on the losing side. You have some wit to make up for your average physical qualities and are likely well read for a woman and are trying your best to appear practical and indifferent about this betrothal but you made one mistake, didn’t you?”

She swallowed, trying to process the quick deductions he was spewing so rapidly from his lips that were definitely not kind towards her and she almost missed that he was asking her a question.

“A mistake?” she parroted back, hating how stupid she sounded.

“Sherlock, stop this….”

But Lord Mycroft was yet again ignored.

“You have found me appealing to look at, quite telling from the way your pupils dilated and your breathing pattern shifted the moment you were able to appraise me and unwittingly found me to be a stallion you could find worth mounting but I shall make one thing clear to you, Lady Margaret,” he said, walking closer to her so the full effect of his height could impress upon her, “I have no interest in that or playing the part of chivalrous knight sweeping you off your feet. You would do best to save yourself the disappointment and not develop a romantic attachment to me.”

She could feel her mouth hang open, could feel Lord Mycroft’s quiet rage next her, and she willed herself to regroup and say something, anything, to turn the situation back around. She would not let this man, her enemy, reduce her to be more nothing than a speck of dust. _Remember why you’re here_ , the voice in her head whispered.

And so she closed her eyes, took a breath, and let her expression melt into a placid smile.

“I cannot help my reaction if I find a man momentarily pleasing to look at, but I am sure the more time I spend in your company that I will be cured of any dangers towards sentiment. Now, shall we take that walk?”

He looked at her in such disbelief, his own lips now parting in surprise, that with a slightly confused shake of his head he sighed and beckoned her to follow. As she began to depart in his wake, she felt a hand at her elbow.

“Well met, Lady Margaret.”

A compliment from the usually icy Lord Mycroft Holmes was a rare thing indeed, and in the least she had earned the esteem of one Holmes that day. Small victories, she’d take them where she could at the moment. Filled with a fleeting sense of triumph, she hurried her steps to catch up with her mildly disgruntled and definitely brooding betrothed.

 

***

Lady Margaret was absolutely not what Sherlock had expected. This small slip of a woman, who had decided to link her arm into his as they walked, occasionally commented on the manor work going on around them or stopped to examine the odd herb that had some tangential medical purpose. She chattered about anything that caught her eye, and at first he found it irritating but then he realized she was perfectly observing everything going on around them and her chatter had some reasonable thought and logic behind them. Very well then, she was not an idiot. Looking down at her dark head, it was true she was no beauty in the vein of poems and epics and was not the sort to tempt men to fight dragons. But she was not displeasing to look at either, not that he planned to look at her much. As they neared the pond he used to swim in when he was younger, further away from everyone, he became aware of how quiet she’d grown and saw that she stared out towards the water, her smile gone.

“I am not what you wanted, Lord William, you have made that much clear. You do not need to insult me to continue making your point. I must make the best of my lot in life, so perhaps we can come to an understanding. What is it you expect of me?”

“Truly?” he asked, staring her in the face and noticing how big her brown eyes were, how soft they seemed, “My intention is after we wed you will remove yourself away from here to Musgrave Hall, where you shall live comfortably and we will have little need to meet very often. If we must make show for the king, we shall, but pageantry is all it will be. I do not expect children. I do not expect you to submit to expected wifely duties. That is all.”

She nodded, and seemed to mull over his words for a moment before a small frown appeared on her lips.

“I am sure Musgrave Hall is a fine house, but I would prefer to remain here where it is farther from court, where Mr. Stamford lives. I feel safe here.”

While he didn’t entirely believe the conviction behind some of her reasons, he did believe the last one. What would he do with a wife so close at hand? And why was he even considering relenting on where she lived? He looked at her again, and damn those eyes of hers. 

“Fine, you may remain here at Montague Manor but that changes nothing else in what I expect. And you, Lady Margaret?”

“Does it matter what I want? You seem to have your mind made up.”

“If you tell me, Mycroft cannot accuse me of being a total wretch,” he said, with a mirthless smile.

“That you remain honest with me, spare me your insults, and that I may have some small modicum of freedom to continue to live my life as a I have.”

“Well, at least two of those I can endeavor to promise,” he said, with a wry trace of humor that surprised him. She laughed at that. If this were any other woman he’d have eviscerated her ruthlessly seven times over and had her crying off. But Lady Margaret had not been what he expected and Lord help him, he found himself oddly willing to behave and show some restraint when faced with the plain knowledge that she was simply trying to survive. It was not her fault they were to wed, she was as much a pawn of the King’s as he was and neither in a place to object. His honor demanded his cooperation, her very existence depended on hers.

“Perhaps we _can_ come to an accord after all, Lord William,” she said, glancing at him from the corner of her eye.

“Sherlock.”

“Pardon?”

“I prefer to be called ‘Sherlock’.”

If he was stuck with a wife, at least he could cut the ‘Lord William’ bit off at the pass. He had never liked his given name, preferring the middle one. In a world full of Williams, Sherlock stood out and indeed, that suited him best and so the request to his intended bride made sense. But then she quickly looked him up and down, a small smile teasing the corner of her lips.

“No.”

“What?”

“I believe I made myself clear, Lord William, shall we return now? Mr. Stamford should have arrived by now to complete the marriage contract details with Lord Mycroft and I’m sure we both would like to know when the wedding shall be.”

He looked at her, and blinked again. Had the king known what stuff Lady Margaret was made off when he ordered the match? He had never been so out his depth in the face of a woman, and even worse yet this one was to be his wife? He needed to gain his footing back, lest he found himself quietly and subtly lorded about by this tiny and surprisingly clever woman. He tried to think of something, any remark to knock her off kilter. She had mentioned the wedding? Ah yes, that one pressing detail he would be glad to ignore but law was law…

“Tell me Lady Margaret, are you prepared for after the wedding?”

“Do you mean…” she asked, a flush of color reddening her cheeks and it had nothing to do with walking back towards the main house.

“I hear it’s greatly painful for women factored in with the spectacle of it all. The eyes watching, and then there’s the blood.”

“I...well I have heard it’s much like riding a horse. Did you not compare yourself a stallion?”

He smirked at her, darkly.

“I assure you, my lady, it is not you who would be doing the mounting.”

Now she blinked at him, and Sherlock could feel the tide turning back in his favor, control slipping back into place. He was the Sheriff of Sherringford, his reputation fierce and his skill and wit famous. He would not find himself defeated by a small slip of a woman with large eyes  and luminous skin.

“I am not sure what prompted you to speak so much of riding, my lord, when it seems you care so little for country matters.”

And that, literally and figuratively, gave him such pause he almost fell over at stopping so suddenly. She couldn’t have…surely this gentlewoman could not know the double meaning of her words. But her face said otherwise and it was clear as day she absolutely meant the bawdy innuendo. No, he would not let her win this.

“I can assure you it is a bit of nothing I will quickly get over and have no use for afterwards. Do keep up, Lady Margaret,” he said quickly, taking advantage of his longer legs to outpace her. _There, that should shut her up for a while_ , he thought, because her blush had doubled and she refused to look at him all of a sudden, keeping her eyes ahead on the path.

Still, if this was how conversation was with her, he could only imagine what the bedding would be like. It filled him with a discomforting mixture of dread and even worse, anticipation. It would not do. The last thing Sherlock Holmes needed was to be intrigued by his wife.

Wed her, bed her, be done with it and move on. He had other matters at hand and most pressing of those was that damn forest witch.  He would not let the trifling matter of impending matrimony distract him from his biggest priority: catching Molly of the Hood.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shakespearean fans will probably note the bit of double entendre between Molly and Sherlock towards the end there, suffice to say "country matters" and the bit of "nothing" mean more than what they appear and were Shakespearean slang for the same thing. Sound that first one out, it'll make sense. ;) 
> 
> As always, Sherlock is that character I always try my best not to make too OOC, so hopefully I'm doing him some credit here or well, a 1480s version of him anyway.  
> Speaking of, I actually have a hobby in researching history and especially this span of British history (15th-16th century) so there will a lot of little things in here that ARE fairly historically accurate for the time, and some less so for the sake of story. IE- way more private moments than likely would exist in that time because privacy really didn't exist then. Where I can, I will try to be fairly true to history, but in others I will be playing at it hard and fast a bit. So please don't put me on blast, fellow history fans!


	3. The Invisible Army Hovering at Their Elbows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irene keeps busy at court and learns a distressing piece of gossip, Molly makes a new friend in Mary Watson to try and determine what sort of man she is marrying, and Sherlock? He's busy clueing for looks and pretending to be oblivious to his audience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To give a little more context of timing, this story's setting is a rather AU version of the late 15th century towards the tail end of the War of the Roses.  
> I also don't claim to be an expert of every societal norm of the time, but I try where I do have working knowledge.

 

_Westminster Palace, London_

 

Irene Adler, daughter of a minor noble, had navigated her way through many a royal court. She had cut her teeth in the French one, learning everything she could about style as a lady-in-waiting to their queen. In her early twenties, she had returned to England and served under the previous queen. And then the bloodshed began and what had felt like the brightest time of her life darkened with the arrival of the Usurper, James Moriarty. The once golden court slowly became a viper’s den, and every waking moment spent in the London palaces had her on guard. She might not have the pale coloring so well loved by all, but her dark hair and bright blue eyes had mesmerized many a men (and women), and so she wore her beauty like armor and wielded her cleverness like a sword.

It made her one of the most popular courtiers, and the most dangerous. A pity how few understood the subtle threat she posed. No one knew it was her who had helped spirit Molly away to the Stamfords years earlier when Moriarty's men lay seige to London. Very few even knew the two women had a connection, for in public they’d always appeared to be of different temperaments and social circles. No one knew that Molly had saved Irene one night from an awful situation involving a drunken knight, and in turn Irene quietly had looked out for her lady from the shadows. They always met in what little secrecy they could, to talk. To commiserate the better times. And eventually, to become allies.

 _Fuck the king_. It had been Irene who conjured their mantra forth, the three words ones she had clung to in less pleasant times and when court life began to make her wary. But she had a mission, she had a part to play, so she smiled at every turn and made the court submit to her charms a bit more each day.

Everyone except King James, who seemed to range from finding her mildly amusing to barely tolerable. It hadn’t taken her long to parse out that as much as he wasn’t her type, so to speak, she was definitely not his either. In the few years under his rule she spent at court, gleaning what she could with her honeyed teasing and sweet flatteries to other nobles, she been able to discern quite a few things:

James Moriarty had a perverse fascination with the Sheriff of Sherringford.

James Moriarty was almost diabolically clever, more so than he let on.

And, worse yet, James Moriarty was restlessly, dangerously mad.

God save the kingdom if his reign continued. Seated at one of the tables in the far corner of the palace’s great hall, she watched over the rim of her wine goblet as the king danced with a manic energy, only moments after displaying his extremely mercurial temper by having what could only be described as a tantrum that resulted in a misguided squire being sent to the dungeon for the mere crime of accidentally stepping on the king’s toe during the previous dance. The newer courtiers, snakes James had placed in court, laughed. The older ones, the ones who remembered a time that was good and fair, stayed silent and bitterly resigned. No one wanted to tempt fate, and so once more Irene held back the savage urge to bury a knife into the king’s skull and turned her attention back onto Lord Moran, one of the king’s favorites.

“My apologies, Sebastian, you were saying?”

“You’re in a dull mood tonight, Mistress Adler, is the wine not to your liking?”

She looked at the cup in hand and drained the rest, licking a droplet of burgundy liquid off her lower lip slowly as Moran’s eyes were glued to the small pink slip of her tongue.

“It is not the wine, but perhaps I prefer a different sort of merriment at the moment,” she murmured brightly, arching a dark brow.

He was too easy, this Sebastian Moran. For all his acclaimed tactical brilliance in battle and strength, the man was so utterly malleable when it came to the potential for pleasure. Perhaps that was what made him so loyal to James, if the rumors about the nature of their closeness were actually true. Well, who was she to judge? There were far more things to find wanting about Lord Moran than his choice of bed partners. And lucky for her, his lips always loosened after she’d provided him with a few comforts.

She had never cared about the occasional concessions she made with her body, sometimes she could find her own pleasure in it all. Irene Adler would whore to the Devil himself it meant ridding the world of James Moriarty. In the end, her role was part of the larger game and she’d long made peace with it.

But she did worry about Molly. For all her friend’s resolve and wit, assignations and flirtations with men was an area in life Molly hadn’t had the luxury to properly navigate. Irene had imparted on her what advice and instruction she could give, advice of the most indecent nature, but being told and experience were two separate things. Especially when one was ordered to marry Lord Holmes the younger. Were it any other man, a kinder man, a gentler man, Irene would feel less troubled. And from the whispers and gossip she had heard upon returning from the north, the dread in her stomach increased. She needed confirmation before she could make the next course of action. And Lord Moran was going to be very instrumental in helping.

He took her hand and led her from the great hall and to an empty store room, where all at once he was on his knees before her. She smiled, fatally. For all his brutish reputation, how many knew that behind closed doors Sebastian Moran begged to be lorded over? She did, of course, she knew what he liked and knew how desperately useful he could be with his mouth under the proper direction.

Near quarter of an hour later, she lowered her skirts while Moran sat back dazed and satisfied. With his defenses down, it was time for Irene to strike. One did not walk amongst the snakes of this court without learning how to use their own fangs.

“Tell me, darling, I heard the most delicious piece of gossip yesterday. Is it true his majesty has arranged a match between the Sheriff of Sherringford and Lady Margaret Hooper? I cannot image two less suited people. They say the man traded his heart for one made of iron.”

Moran chuckled, a conspiratorial grin melting onto his features.

“Oh yes, Mistress, indeed it’s true. His majesty has truly outdone himself with this one! He keeps Lady Margaret deftly under the will of the crown by binding her to his most unrelenting vassal.”

“Seems like it’s entirely in the sheriff’s favor to land a noblewoman with a decent dowry and impeccable pedigree.”

“That’s where you’re wrong there, and it is the best part. Little Holmes has never wanted to marry, so by arranging this match not only does the king deal with the problem of Lady Margaret, he gets to see Holmes squirm for the rest of his life now. Would have been easier to imprison the girl but then this is much better revenge.”

“How brilliant! I almost pity the girl. Though I must say, it’s interesting that one of the king’s most loyal subjects is one he finds the most delight in torturing. What offense did our fair sheriff commit to warrant such attention?”

“Holmes is far too clever for his own good, and far too proud in it. Still, don’t see why his Majesty bothers so much with him but that’s a wedding James isn’t going to miss let alone the bedding ceremony.”

“The bedding? Oh my word,” Irene began with a forced laugh, “That practice is hardly in fashion anymore, is it?”

“It’s like I said, love, his Majesty delights in Holmes’ suffering where he can take it, and it seems in this case it’s in the taking of Lady Margaret.”

“Yet another reason to avoid the complications of marriage, don’t you agree?”

Moran nodded, standing up and straightening his clothes.

“Too much fuss when it’s much easier to find one’s own fun at court,” he said with a leer, pressing a firm hand against her backside. It was easy to see Lord Moran would be restless for the remainder of the evening, but ah, that was the king’s problem to see to, not hers.

“Indeed. You’ve been merry as always, my lord. Wait here a few moments after I depart.”

With that, she slipped out of the small room and let the painfully forced smile on her face drop. She did not return to the great hall, but to her lady’s chambers to think. There was nothing for it, she’d have to ensure she was part of the entourage headed for Yorkshire in a month hence for the wedding. She had to let Molly know the latest twist in the puzzle. A bedding ceremony of all things! As if it weren’t bad enough Molly had to marry the man let alone go through the consummation with such an unfeeling husband. To have the king present…

It gave Irene a shudder of displeasure. She would do her best to prepare Molly.

It had been so easy to slip into the service of the king's half-sister, Lady Janine, and would be no trifle to convince her ladyship to bring Irene along. Unlike her brother, Janine seemed far more reasonable and if anything more a hostage to her situation, trying to make the best of it. Some whispered she and Holmes had once had a brief near dalliance last time he was at court, but it seemed the poor woman had mistaken courtly love for the other kind. Irene knew better, courtly love was a concept Holmes had no time for, more likely he had been using the lady for her connection to Master Magnussen, the Danish ambassador who had once been her tutor. Another wicked man who had found himself mysteriously murdered not far from his Appledore manor. Some blamed the forest witch, but Irene had always wondered if perhaps there was indeed a defiant streak simmering in the younger Holmes and if perhaps he had done the deed himself. Ah, but some silly courtier would probably think Holmes had been motivated by some love for Janine if he was in fact the executioner.

Love, how droll! What need was there for it in this world when there were higher things to live for. Revenge. Pleasure. Vindication. Those were what she lived for. It was as Holmes himself once said, when their paths crossed in the wake of Lady Janine’s wounded heart and Irene had taken him to task for his behavior, sentiment was a defect of the losing side.

A pity that a man with such a fine face and body was so...whatever it is Holmes truly was. Were he a better man, perhaps she would feel less wary at Molly’s fate. Ah, but then such a man would likely bore her friend to tears.

It had always been about the long game, to tip the balance against James and put England back on the right path. It was, despite the means, about justice in the end. But it was no secret that somewhere along the way, the danger of it and the thrill had become a bit intoxicating for Molly. Irene had warned her, of course, but she couldn’t say she didn’t delight in the same thrill pulsing through her veins.

And if they weren’t careful, it could get them caught.

 

***

 

As was the way with things, Lady Margaret was moved into the Holmes’ household to await her wedding day and spend time growing accustomed to her future family. It was a pointless exercise; she had fathomed Lord Mycroft’s character within the afternoon of her visit and she had quite the idea about her future husband.

He was breathtakingly blunt to the point where she could almost conceive he had no feelings at all stirring within him. But then he was also blindingly brilliant and observant, the rapid pace of his deductions and thought process leaving most speechless and befuddled. Even she had to work to find her tongue lest she appear like a complete idiot in his presence. He was so contradictory at times, stone one moment and in the next full of a sort of wild energy. In those moments it was clear he _could_ feel: pride, anger, resentment, boredom, pettiness, arrogance. Lord, that last one especially. She had always thought him the brooding silent type based on their limited interactions, but she was only half right. Oh yes, he could brood when he was restless and bored and truly vexed. But silent? Nay. She had been so wrong on that front.

He would pace about the hall at all times for hours, and she was never quite clear who his intended audience was but he spoke nonetheless, working out whatever issue he was tasked with solving. A band of thieves stealing bread, a poisoned lord the next village over. Sometimes he would even make speculations about her, well, Molly of the Hood. Not Lady Margaret, never Margaret. Everything else around him ceased to exist except for the work. She had never seen it before, such steely focus. It was becoming easy to see he was appointed to his position not for his family name nor some misguided loyalty to the crown. She was loathe to admit it about this enemy, but she had never met anyone more suited to the task of catching criminals than Lord William Holmes, not even sweet, hapless Gregory. 

At times, when she would speak to ask Lord William a question  in the middle of his diatribes, he would pause in his step and blink at her.

“Have you been here this whole time?”

And she would sigh, narrow her eyes, and go back to her needlework while listening and offering up more questions or her own thoughts when one struck her as relevant. He had no tact, no concept of courtesy, and yet his mind was truly something else and she began to find the way his mind worked fascinating and rather addictive to listen to. And so the routine formed between them, she would find something to busy herself with in the hall whether it was sewing or reading, and he would burst in full of energy towards the latest mental task puzzling him and she would listen and he would pretend he wasn’t aware of her presence until she spoke but he never dismissed her either. In fact, sometimes she caught his gaze squarely focused on her with some unnamed _thing_ in his expression.

A fortnight into this bit of ritual, she was starting to think he actually took her questions and comments to mind but of course he never let on. It was the most time they spent in each other’s company, these brief hours with all the servants and other household staff milling about. He had shown no interesting in learning more about his future wife, but she suspected he felt he had learned all he needed to know upon their first meeting. _Well, let that be his mistake_ , she thought. It was better to her advantage if he took little interest in her beyond just a faceless audience for him to sound his reasonings off to.

Sometimes John Watson and his wife, Mary, joined in as part of that audience and despite herself Molly found the two quite pleasing company. It was hard to fathom how such a man like Lord William had such amicable people for friends. She almost wanted to dismiss it, but curiosity got the better of her. If she was to learn everything she could about her enemy, she had to commit fully. So she endeared herself to Mistress Watson, a task she found quite enjoyable. It was easy becoming friends with the woman, and it gave Molly a slight pang of guilt at the thought of using her new companion. But needs must. Everything in the end would be justified.

Days before her wedding, when word came that the royal entourage would be attending, Molly found herself filled with sudden anxiety and Mary, sweet Mary, was there to be a calming presence. She didn’t need to know it was more than just nerves of a bride-to-be. As the two sat close together under a large oak tree near Montague Hall, Molly huffed a breath and took Mary’s hand, eyes pleading.

“Speak plainly, Mary, what sort of man am I truly marrying? Lord William is...unlike any man I have ever met.”

“A true pain in the arse, you mean?”

Molly’s mouth worked open and close at the candid statement. Well, she had asked her to speak plainly. Mary laughed and patted Molly’s hand.

“Margaret, my darling, worry not. Sherlock is many things, and some of them not always good, but he is honorable and fair in his own manner. He will be a fine protector. At times, he can be a bit duplicitous for his work but I have the impression he will try to always be honest with you. I believe he likes you.”

Molly barked a mirthless at that statement, shaking her head.

“I do not believe he takes note of my presence at all sometimes. It’s obvious he has little want of me, nor I him.”

“And yet it is you he has been trying to impress lately with his deductions. I do believe he has been shaving more frequently as well.”

“What has that to do with me?”

“You see, Sherlock used to be something of a peacock before the war. Afterwards, when he was appointed sheriff, it was if he suddenly cared little how he appeared. John and I almost did not recognize him upon one return from London, he had grown a beard and his hair so long. Since you’ve arrived, I’ve noticed him making more of an effort.”

“Perhaps at Lord Mycroft’s direction?”

“If that were Lord Mycroft’s will, Sherlock would do the opposite and roll himself around in pig’s dung just to defy his brother.”

“I wish I could believe it was on my behalf, but I find the evidence lacking.”

Mary sighed, leaning against the tree trunk more and playing with the material of her turquoise silk dress.

“Sherlock does not express feelings like most people. He likely feels he has little need for them, a lesson his brother imparted. If Sherlock is made of stone as they say, Mycroft is ice itself. You have noticed?”

Molly nodded. While Lord Mycroft had been an accommodating host, she could not exactly say he was a warm man either. He was truly all the things she had once suspected the sheriff to be, stoically unmovable and indifferent to people save for his family, and even then it was hardly apparent.

“I think you would be good for him though, our Sherlock. It is clear you have the wits and spirit to keep apace with him. I think he knows it too, it’s why he always looks to you first when he needs an audience. I think you have John rather jealous these days. You’ll find marriage to Sherlock will in many ways be a constant negotiation in having the upper hand. But any woman who can triumph over him is a rare woman indeed and worth all the praise in the kingdom.”

“But will he be good for me?” Molly asked. Not that it mattered, she tried to tell herself.  Someday, if everything went to plan, he _would_ discover the truth about her and that their marriage was also another means to an end. Likely, he would want an annulment at best or to live their lives apart yet still married at worst. But she would cross that bridge someday.

“I think Sherlock Holmes is capable of far more than many, even himself, gives him credit for. You will find no one more committed to protecting those close to him. His focus to his work is intense, imagine how it would be were he to to focus even a fraction of that towards love?”

She knew Mary was being honest, but Molly just could not fathom it. Perhaps Lord William would make some room for her in his life, be cordial. Perhaps he would even try to be amicable in the strange way he was with the Watsons. But love?

Never. He was not that sort of man, and she was not so foolish enough to lose all reason and become besotted with the enemy. Not for all the stars in the heavens.

“Love is not part of the equation in this marriage. But it is kind of you to hope for the best.”

Mary studied Molly for a long moment.

“You are a strangely practical creature, Margaret Hooper.”

“Indeed. We should return, there’s many preparations for the arrival of the king and I believe Lord William and John were to return shortly from their outing.”

Practical Margaret, who had survived thus far by appearing to be so. Practical people did not plot to depose their kings, practical people did not roam the woods or don disguises to break the law and cause political unrest. She might not be the strongest fighter or smartest person in the land, but she used what she had and Molly wielded the appearance of practicality like a shield.  

The two women stood, brushed their skirts off and returned to the manor where upon their return, John greeted his wife with an affection kiss. Lord William barely cast a glance at Molly and walked right by her without a single word.

She honestly had no idea where Mary’s optimistic view on her impending marriage to Lord William came from. The man was quite content to prove she was little more than an occasional witness to his brilliance.

But despite Molly’s task to learn more about the sheriff, she could not control what her biases led her to overlook. She had not seen what Mary had in the weeks since the infamous Lady Margaret had arrived to Montague Hall. She found it difficult to believe Lord William Holmes was capable of the sort of affection any reasonable woman would want.

Mary, on the other hand…

 

***

 

“She is rathering interesting, do you not think?” Mary asked her husband as they walked back towards their home in the center of the village.

“Who? Lady Margaret? I cannot say I have noticed anything out of the ordinary.”

“But you must admit, she manages Sherlock much better than to be expected and we both know he isn’t an easy sort.”

“That I can agree, but I have to wonder if the poor girl’s resolve will eventually crumble into the marriage.”

“Do you really think he’ll behave that poorly?”

“Mary, this is a man who once slipped low doses of poison in my ale out of curiosity at what would happen. There is little I put past him.”

“That was then, John. Sherlock’s changed a bit, hasn’t he?”

“He’s become more moody, if anything.”

“I think if he just let her, Margaret could make him happy.”

John shook his head.

“She is a pleasant girl, but Sherlock is not the sort of man to find happiness in a woman. The only thing that seems to give him any joy is solving a predicament that interests him, and even those are rarer these days.”

“He should have never accepted the position as sheriff, it’s a waste of his talents,” Mary said sadly.

“What choice did he have? The Holmes family has always been loyal to the crown, even when it has been ill-gotten.”

“A fine mess this all is for him. I just hope in the least he treats her well. But…” Mary began, unsure of how to word her next thought.

Lady Margaret was a lovely girl, smart and easy to converse with. But there was something beneath her eyes, something a bit _too_ easy in her demeanor.

“What is it, Mary?”

“I feel as if Margaret is holding something back or rather, sometimes it feels like she is playacting. I do wonder.”

“You read too much into it. She is likely trying to be polite in a house where manners do not come easily.”

Mary nodded, still feeling as if John did not understand her point.

“Perhaps you’re right.”

But in her mind, Mary was not convinced. Something was not entirely as it seemed with Lady Margaret, and after all, who better to spot such a thing than one with their own hidden secrets?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot, it moveth towards the wedding day. 
> 
> Also, I probably gave Irene a more progressive view on having witnesses to the consummation of marriages than was like for late the 1480s. For those unaware, it was customary at one point for the bride and groom to be put to bed together on their wedding night by witnesses, to prove consummation. Sometimes it's symbolic in nature, and sometimes it was them also being present for couples to do the do, but rarely in Western Europe. Most times, the witnesses were not privy to that part of things but of course Moriarty is vying for a front row seat to the Sherlock Holmes Discomfort Experience. 
> 
> How will Molly and Sherlock handle the spectacle that will be their wedding and bedding? Stay tuned for next time.


	4. Weddings, Wine, and Country Wandering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone loves weddings, unless you're Sherlock and Molly: reluctant bride and groom.

Over the next few days, Lady Margaret had made herself scarce in Lord William’s company and focused on planning the wedding celebration, the decor, the menu, and occasionally butting heads with Mycroft in the process. She had wanted yellow, Mycroft argued it was not appropriate as it was the color for Spanish mourning and their king was on his deathbed. He wanted plum cakes, she wanted carrot. Finally, it a fit of pique, Lady Margaret huffed and threw her hands in the air one afternoon and Mycroft was practically red in the face as they stood on opposite ends of the library.

“Perhaps we should ask Lord William what he would like or are you now the groom?” she asked pointedly to Mycroft.

“You assume my brother even cares to form an opinion? Well, Sherlock, what say you?”

They flung their glances to the corner of the room, where the man in question sat with his hands steepled under his chin.

“Lord William?” Molly asked, her words louder and shaper.

He blinked and looked over at them.

“What was the question? I assume something trivial regarding pudding? Mycroft let her have her way for the pudding, your waistline could afford less plum cakes.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Margaret said with smug satisfaction at gaining the upper hand over Mycroft.

“Reserve your thanks, woman. Were it my way, this ceremony would not even be happening. But as it were,” he paused to take a deep breath. If they were going to do this it would be right, it would not be done in halves, it would be done in the style and flair once associated with his name. 

“Yellow  _ and _ blue will be the colors. Beef pies, not lamb. For heaven’s sake no Arthurian pageantry. More lutes than pipes, pipes are too childish.”

Both Margaret and Mycroft’s faces were frozen for a long moment as they took in his words.

“Yes, well...yes then,” Mycroft stammered.

“Is that agreeable to you, my lady?” Sherlock asked, turning a condescending gaze to his intended.

She gave a shrug. “If it pleases you.”

“Now, Mycroft do be useful and make sure notice has been put on the church door.”

And that was how things progressed over the days leading to the king’s arrival. Sherlock had intended to be hands off until his vanity had gotten the best of him. Everything was getting the best of him these days.  

To say he was weary about his current lot in life was, at best, an understatement. Nevermind he had to let the rumors of him being the king’s loyal pawn continue to be greatly exaggerated. It pricked at his ego but that mask allowed him to do what little good he could in secrecy. Here and there, he could secretly pay for the taxes of those he was said to bully into paying so those coins can pad the king’s coffers. Help where he could while reluctantly telling those he assisted to speak nothing of it; on the contrary, they were asked to continue speaking ill of him. It was all an illusion, one more disguise he carefully wore to move in the shadows.

So, truly, having a wife about to be thrown into the mix was the last damn thing he needed. Forget that Lady Margaret actually appeared to be clever in her own way and of reasonable wit. Or that he had started to become accustomed to her presence when he paced about reasoning out his deductions. The devil take the fact that he’d somehow come to expect her commentary or questions or the quick upturn of the corner of her lips when something he said amused her. 

Thus it came to be that he continued the pretense that he did not notice her, even though he strongly suspected she knew it was just an act. Perhaps they were both good at pretending and indeed, the fact that she was still alive and not sent to the Tower meant Lady Margaret had enough forethought and savvy to navigate her way through a deadly web of politics. She was good at keeping an appearance of being small and unnoticeable, but he knew there was more to her than that. The problem was he shouldn’t have even cared.

Caring was a disadvantage, sentiment a defect. It was these useless and clumsy emotions that had gotten them there in the first place, in service to a man who should have been the one left headless in a battlefield. If only Moriarty hadn’t made a veiled threat against his parents. If only he hadn’t cared then either. Too late now, it was a canker infesting his soul but he’d be damn if took root in his heart.

By luck, a horn sounded from outside and shook Sherlock from his chagrined thoughts. The king had arrived, for festivities that only he and ilk would find any perverse joy in. Lady Margaret appeared, her mouth turned down at the corners and eyes gloomy. Well, at least she held their situation in the same regard. The only thing worse than Sherlock Holmes being afflicted with a wife was a wife who would have grand delusions of love. He could at least thank the heavens Lady Margaret Hooper was a sensible enough woman to know better. In fact, were he to find any qualities pleasing about her aside from her wit, it was that much like him she did not seem inclined to any sort of romantic nature. Her only displays of passion were in her political opinions, and even those were carefully guarded.

“Well, my lord, shall we commence this farce?” she asked archly. 

“If we must.”

“Then might I suggest you take some care to better groom your hair before tonight’s meal.”

He opened his mouth on instinct, but found himself unsure of what to say. Realizing she had gotten one over on him, only then did a corner of Margaret’s mouth tick up in the corner to form the barest hint of a smile. Following in her wake, they went outside to greet the king and his entourage.

Sherlock kept the same bored, apathetic expression he wore at court when he noticed the party before him. The king, his pet Moran, Mistress Adler and a few of the other loyal vipers that were Moriarty’s favored courtiers. Adler was the only one he didn’t actively loathe, but she was as steadfast to trust as a changing tide. Still, if he had to identify a potential ally amongst the entourage, it was her. And yet...Lady Janine was not present. Then why would Mistress Adler be there? It was when Moran turned his head to glance at the lady in question with an oily smile that it all became clear. Well, there was no accounting for taste.

“Welcome your majesty, I hope the journey was pleasant?” Mycroft asked, appearing smoothly as if out of thin air.

“Immensely! Nothing would make me miss this momentous occasion,” he barked out cheerfully, his face alight with a sickening display of mirth. He turned to face Margaret, grin growing wider. “My lady, how radiant you look!”

Sherlock watched the king approach and tightly grasp one of Lady Margaret’s hands, dragging it up to his lips in a show of false chivalry. He watched as his betrothed struggled to school her features in neutral calm, but the discomfort rolled off her in waves. It made something inside Sherlock burn, the urge to strike Moriarty away from her itching fiercely across his palms. Yet he remained still and observed. 

“Perhaps it is a mistake not to marry you myself, but oh well! What a lucky man my sheriff here is!” 

“I thank you for the compliments, your majesty,” Lady Margaret murmured, curtsying. Sherlock did not miss how her hands tightly fisted at the fabrics of her skirt. It was very likely her palms would bear crescent shaped scars from her nail before the next few days were through.

He seldom felt any gratitude towards his brother, but in one thing he did that day: Mycroft had had the good sense to order extra casks of ale and wine for the king’s visit and wedding. While Sherlock rarely enjoyed the dulling of senses that came with overindulging, he had the strong suspicion a beer-induced haze was likely one of the only things to make this week bearable. 

***

 

Molly led Irene around a quieter part of the manor, where servants milled less and it was more ducks for company than human. Irene’s presence was a surprise, but a welcome one. Having at least one ally at hand was a small comfort. The conversation at hand, however, was anything but.

“You mean the king plans to...he’s going to…”

“Watch the consummation himself. One more twist of the knife. Bad enough it will be awkward as is when it was just going to be the usual tucking you in, now with this expectation…” Irene paused and took a deep sigh, “Just remember what I’ve told you. Sherlock can be callous and sometimes even cruel, but never intentional. I do not believe he will mishandle you too poorly.”

“I would have it that he doesn’t mishandle me at all!”

“I know, dear mouse, I know. When the time comes put your mind elsewhere, perhaps on another you’d prefer it to be.”

Molly snorted at that.

“Unlikely, when one is busy taking life bit by bit to survive while juggling the daunting task of rebellion, suitors are hardly a priority. There is no one else.”

Irene shrugged.

“Men are quite overrated anyway. But do put your mind from the situation when the time comes. The quicker it is, the better. Then never again.”

“Assuming Lord William does not suddenly find himself craving the marital bed or heirs.”

At this, Irene actually had the gall to full on laugh, bending over at the waist as she took great gasps of air in between chuckles.

Well, that answered that.

“Come my dear, let us look at your wardrobe. It may not be a happy day for you, but that doesn’t mean you cannot be the most dazzling woman in the room.”

“After you, of course?”

Irene smiled. “Naturally. But now tell me, have you learned anything helpful while here?”

Molly look away for a moment, thinking of her words carefully. She had come to this place expecting to completely loathe the sheriff, find him every bit lacking as a person as she expected him to be. But he, annoying man, did not quite live up to to her preconceived notions.

“He is not what I expected at all upon closer inspection. An odd man, yes, and terrifyingly brilliant at times but woefully naive and ignorant when it comes to other people’s feelings. But he is not the proper villain I thought I have been dealing with.”

“I could have told you that, but you needed to form your own judgement. There is no love lost between us, but I have found him more misguided than truly vile. Unnecessarily proud too, he used to be quite the peacock.”

“I have been hearing that. What happened to make him so...so…”

“Unkempt? More sour in spirits? I suppose one cannot serve the king this long and not be changed. Who knows what game Holmes is truly playing at but even for the great Sherlock Holmes it cannot be without taking its toll.”

Molly groaned.

“Enough of him, before I find it in my heart to actually pity my nemesis.”

“Heavens no, perish the thought!” Irene teased dramatically but Molly knew it was also Irene’s way of needling at Molly’s habit of being stubborn in opinion. Once her good opinion of a person was lost or not made initially, it was hard for her to see past that. Perhaps she was proud in her own way, but the current misfortune of her family bloodlines made it a necessity to let very few in. 

And given how frustrating being forced to wed felt, despite her trying to reason it was a good way to gain reconnaissance, she was not prepared to feel her opinions on Lord William Sherlock Scott Holmes to melt even if the ice had started to thaw slightly. She could not afford that. She had a purpose, rebellion, quietly destroying Moriarty’s power from within slow but surely. This purpose was not served by her feelings towards the sheriff growing more complicated. She needed to maintain the rigid clarity she’d been operating with. 

So she plastered on pleasant smiles over the meals that followed, let the thinly veiled jests at her expense the usurper flung her way slide off her. Irene had been sat next to her, and would squeeze Molly’s hand when she could sense her friend’s tempers rising. Thank goodness for friends in miserable places. The days blended into one long farce she took no humor in until she was laced up into her finest gown of white brocade and velvet with a pattern of large red roses across her kirtle. Irene dressed her hair up into a braid that looped upon her head like a crown with rich ruby-toned ribbons woven in. She had even let Irene apply a wash of red on her lips to complete the look.

“You are the stuff of poetry,” Irene murmured, giving one last pat on the braided crown and stepping back.

“Tragic poetry, of maidens fair thrown together with bearish husbands.”

“‘Tis better than the Tower, I assure you.”

Molly arched a brow.

“Yes, Lord William does have that in his favor, I suppose.”

“It will all be over soon, my dear,” Irene said with a comforting smile.

“Not soon enough.”

“Until then, keep in the cups. The wine will make what comes tonight easier to bear.”

Molly’s scarlet lips turned down. Time was closing down on her and soon she would suffer humiliation after humiliation in the span of one evening. She did her best to console herself with the fact that their next strike against Moriarty would be a significant blow to his treasury. It almost made her feel better.

As she followed her borrowed retinue to the church, she wondered the completely trivial thought of if her husband-to-be had bothered to comb his hair or wear other his usual stark black. With little fanfare she proceeded to the altar where he stood before the bishop, and to her surprise Lord William had indeed taken some care with his appearance. His wild curls were brushed and he wore robes of rich blue with gold embroidering and sleeves of warm ochre yellow. He took appraise of her gown and her hair and she could not fathom if he found her beautiful or plain, or if he even registered such notions about people. What he did seem to notice, from his quiet words, was not what she had expected.

“Had you no gown to match the colors?”

She blinked at him. He chose now to debate the color of her wedding clothes? But, she supposed, it was the very thing he  _ would _ do as why would he realize how tactless it was.

“I had no such garments, my lord, nor means to order new gowns. I assure you this will likely not be the last time I disappoint you.”

The bishop cleared his throat and Molly felt her cheeks color. Really, the altar was a poor place for this conversation! And so they remained silent only to speak the requisite words ask forth by the bishop, and then came the painfully long moment where it was asked if anyone objected. She almost wished someone would, but she could tell from the menacing gleam hiding the pretense of jolliness that the king held in his eyes that if anyone tried to stop this they’d find themselves executed on the spot. She dared not look out into the church. 

“I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

With hands now clasped together in a loose held, Molly and her husband stood and turned to face the congregation and walked down the aisle back to the door.

“It was not a disappointment, Margaret.”

She turned her head towards Lord William, perhaps she should simply call him ‘William’ now? He had murmured the words and for a moment she wondered if she’d imagined them.

“What is that?”

“Your gown. ‘Twas not the colors I expected but my question was not meant to convey disappointment. You look...fair. Objectively speaking.”

Was that color his cheeks? No, it must simply be from the sudden flush of heat in the church. And yet…

“I do not think such things are objective, but thank you the sweet words nonetheless, William.”

At the use of his Christian name without the “Lord” preceding it he whipped his head towards her fully and his eyes widened and his head moved almost as if he meant to shake it but then his features resolved themselves.

“Merely observation. Come now, the king’s merriment awaits.”

He led her on back towards the manor in brisk steps and if she hadn’t known better she would think he was flustered. God’s breath, it was not as if it was some romantic interlude at their own wedding. 

And yet it surprised her at how pleased she felt inside that in his own way her husband had admitted he found her pretty that day. Of course, it was because to receive such a compliment from a man such as him was a rare thing and had nothing to do with any way her feelings towards his character might have begun to shift. She had to stay focused.

Or rather, for the night lose her focus in the pleasant haze of much wine.

 

***

 

The hall was alive with the festivities as the musicians played jaunty tunes, food was served, ale and wine flowed freely and the dancing was in full swing. The king had spent many dances with Adler, and Sherlock had to wonder if Moran, who sulked in the corner with a tankard, was upset at not being Adler’s partner or the king’s for the night. Somewhere across the floor he heard his wife’s loud laughter as John swung her into a circle and she bounced up to and fro in the dance.

He had been observing all night, knew she was deep into cups and knew exactly what she was doing. Hell, it was the same plan he’d had for the night. Drown in alcohol and numb the senses, dull his sharp mind for a few hours, make it easier to erase this night from his mind on the morrow.

“You should dance with her, you know,” Mary said as she slid up next to him and looked towards her husband and Margaret.

“It is not my wish.”

“Come now, Sherlock, you  _ love _ dancing! Or is this yet another thing of your life that you’re letting slip by.”

Sherlock scoffed, shifting some distance between them.

“Tell me Mary is it a quarter of a stone or half a stone you’ve put on these days?”

“Do not try it, Sherlock, I know when you’re diverting. You stand before us and yet we are losing you bit by bit each passing month. You are slipping away into a husk of yourself. John sees it too, but he tries not to speak of it. This match may not be what you want, but perhaps Lady Margaret might be good for you.”

“Mary, I have not nor will ever be in need of a proper wife. I will settle for my lot in life out of duty to the crown but do not assume I am so weak as to need a woman to mend me.”

“I assume nothing. But give some credit, she is very well mannered but something tells me Lady Margaret is in truth far from the proper sort. There’s something about her, I haven’t figured it out yet but I will in time.”

“Marriage is slowing you down.”

Mary scoffed, whacking him lightly on the arm.

“Pig. Now then, time for me to reclaim my husband. I suggest you dance with your wife before the king does. He looks to be angling to partner with her next.”

Sherlock scanned the room and could see Moriarty’s eyes on Margaret’s form. Indeed, he looked like a hawk ready to pounce upon a field mouse. If Sherlock did not intervene he was sentencing his wife to a horribly uncomfortable task in dancing with a man she clearly loathed and he was sure the king would also make loud mockery of Sherlock abandoning his wife and something unoriginal like Moriarty needing to step in and play husband, perhaps he would need to play husband later too. He wouldn’t put it past the man to actually try either.

No, dancing with his wife was clearly the lesser of two evils and so as Mary led John away Sherlock made quick work to swoop in and take Margaret’s hand and spin her away from the approaching form of the king.

“You dance well, husband. I would not have expected that.”

He looked down into Margaret’s flush face, her cheeks colored from exertion, lips wine-stained and eyes bright with merriment. It made something in him flutter, actually flutter. It was discomfiting. 

“I was born into a noble family, we are all expected to learn such things as you know.”

“I just assumed it was an activity you’d find pointless and beneath you.”

“On the contrary,” he replied, raising their hands and guiding her through another turn.

“Any other surprising hobbies when you aren’t intimidating poor townsfolk or extorting them for further taxes?”

With the wine loosening her tongue, tonight was not the night for her to easily speak her honesty convictions, and to him no less. They may be husband and wife but his work had always been the most important commitment. He pulled her closer, leaning to move his mouth to her ear.

“Mind your words, wife. You do not find yourself in tolerant company.”

She pulled her head back slightly, their faces closer together than they’d been before. She could feel his breath mingle with hers.

“Forgive me, I almost forgot your stance on such things. I shan’t forget.”

She curtsied and cut their dance short, moving back to the refreshments. He watched her leave and sighed.

She had mistaken his words, but he supposed it was worthless to correct her. Let her think the worst, it was all part of the illusion anyway but he found it had soured his mood and so he took the tankard of ale John offered him as the two friends drank and Margaret avoided him in favor of conversing with Adler and other courtiers. 

As the night progressed he found himself growing more intoxicated, which led to his sense of control slipping. He’d nearly fought with some lesser courtiers over their disbelief that he could identify over two hundred and fifty different types of soot and ash until John literally dragged him away as his arms swung out to strike. It was at that point Mary intervened to cut them off, plying Sherlock with fatty rolls to sober him up some. He had a strong suspicion she’d done the same for his wife, who sat with a trencher of rolls in her hand across the room looks less spirited and bit worse for wear. 

“I know you’d both love to drink yourselves quite silly in the face of what’s to come, but I think you’ll find it would make it worse. Better to have some wits about you lest the king make it worse if either of you are up to the task,” Mary advised sternly.

Sherlock shot her a baleful look.

“You are a clever one, Mary Watson, too clever sometimes.”

“That she is, and it’s why I married her,” John said, wrapping arm around his wife’s waist and nuzzling into her. John never did hold his liquor well.

“Now my friend, do we need to have a special word on what is to come? Has Mycroft advised you?”

John chuckled at Mary’s implications while Sherlock felt color rise to his cheeks again.

“I know what happens, Mary, I am not ignorant of such things.”

Her eyebrows shot up and John dragged his head around to look at his friend skeptically.

“You? You’ve...with a girl? At all? You?”

“Don’t look so surprised, it was but an exercise in seeing what the fuss was. I found it unremarkable. Now if you’ll excuse me I shall see to my wife.”

He stood on shaky feet, leaving the stunned pair of Watsons in his wake.

Margaret looked up at him, licking crumbs off her thumb and Sherlock spent a moment too long staring as her pink tongue darted out.

“Hello husband, recalled I exist? Most men wait until at least a fortnight before jilting an unwanted bride.”

“I have not jilted you yet,  _ wife _ , but rest assured should you wish I shall send you further to the countryside to stay at Montague Hall.”

“Oh, am I too country for you, my lord?”

He did not miss her double meaning. How polite she managed to look while implying such vulgarities. It was almost impressive.

“Nay, I am more than equipped for you.”

She tilted her head at his comment, eyebrows lifting.

“Well well, the couple of the hour!” the king boomed, sauntered over to them and throwing an arm around Sherlock’s shoulder. “I hope you’ve feasted well, darlings, as I do think it is time for bed and making this thing official!”

He was loud enough to be overheard, earning a merry shout from the crowd. Sherlock hated every single one of them and suspected Margaret felt the same. There would be no reprieve or delay. In the least, there was a the good fortune that his parents had been kept in London due to illness. He would not put it past the king to have tried to make his parents witness their son deflower his wife. 

A group of revelers swept them up and led each of them away to prepare for bed, and Sherlock did not miss the brief open look of panic on his wife’s face as they led her away to brush out her hair and change her into nightclothes.

***

 

The bed loomed before them, plushly stuffed with down feather and and lavender, thick bed clothes folded back. It had four ornate posters and thick curtains, a luxury that surprised Molly. She knew the Holmes family had deep coffers, but she suspected even the king did not possess many beds this fine. In the least, the most humiliating moment of her life would not happen on a roughly hewn tick in the hall. She shivered under the fine linen of her nightgown, which served little to provide warmth from the night’s chill, despite the heat and faint smoke rising from the hearth below.

As her husband kept a firm hold of her hand and turned to look at her to help her up into bed, Molly swore it was still the cold and not the piercing gaze of his crystalline eyes that made her shiver. While he gave a great show of being calm, she hadn’t missed the slight trembling of his hand against her. 

“God’s teeth, Sherlock, any slower and it’ll be Michelmas by the time you mount her!” Moriarty complained, crossing his arms as Moran snickered and Irene narrowed her eyes a fraction at the king when no one would notice. “Shall we not have some more music?” he yelled out into the antechamber where other revelers waited. Someone began playing the lute.

Molly watched Lord William slide into bed next to her, and both waited in terse silence as the king and Mycroft moved to draw the bedclothes up, tucking the couple in. 

“Surely this is enough, your majesty?” Lord Mycroft asked, his impatience showing. Perhaps he actually cared, but more likely he did not want to witness what was to happen. 

“Now now, I must make sure my hard work in ensuring this match is complete. Of course I could always reinstate primae noctis.”

_ No. NO _ . The thought of the king touching her, coming anywhere that close to her made her stomach feel wrung inside out. It was a wonder she didn’t cast up the wine she’d drunk there and then. But then Lord William leaned over her, shifting his body to half cover her as he reached a long arm over her head and the drawstring cord for the bed curtains.

“I will bed my own wife, but I must also take care she does not catch a chill. You all understand, the night grows cold,” he said archly, and Molly was surprised by the mild act of defiance he risked in creating some modicum of privacy for them. She had no illusions, he would bed her in a moment’s hence, but at least that slippery man in a crown would not see. 

“Don’t be quiet on our accounts then,” Moriarty sneered, not bothering to hide the petulance disappointment in his voice. He could have ordered the curtains be kept open, but it appeared in whatever mind game lay between the sheriff and the king that making such a demand would be akin to losing. Lord William made every effort to show he was not playing at any sort of battle of wits, but her time thus far in his home had begun to open her eyes. He was still an enemy of course, but it was like peeling back the skin of an onion; more layers emerged in which it was possible he was not entirely truly vile but he was still the sheriff and she was still Molly of the Hood, who now just happened to be husband and wife. 

“Margaret,” he murmured, his eyes piercing into hers as his body lay over hers, heating her cool skin. His hand hesitantly skimmed lower over the fabric of her nightgown to rest on just above her knee. They could hear the king snickering or moaning about it taking forever as the moments ticked by. “Forgive me, this is not...what either of us want.” His voice was so unsure and so unlike the normally composed words that tumbled out of his usually clever mouth. 

He himself trembled, and in that moment a small spark of compassion lit within her. She reached her hands up and grasped his face, palms molding over his sharp cheekbones as she pushed his face closer to hers.

“Ignore him, or else he wins. Take me and be done with it, I think we both should like this night to be over with.”

Surprising him and even herself, she leaned her head up to meet his and brushed her dry lips across his. His lower lip was soft as she expected it to be, and she wondered for a second if she had made herself look a fool as he froze still but then he melted slightly at the touch of her lips and returned the kiss. It held no passion nor was it chaste, but it was not terrible either. It was more like an acceptance, as if to say, “like it or not, this is how it shall be.”

And much like in his nature, he quickly deduced the situation and applied himself to master it, parting his mouth and hers and taking control of the kiss. She could taste mead on his breath, sweet and potent. In another life, she could have almost found sublime pleasure in his mouth and the fingers trailing up her thigh. She put her mind there; in a place where Moriarty did not exist, her marriage was wanted, as was the man above her. Irene had said to pretend, imagine one Molly would actually desire. She closed her eyes tightly, to image. It was not because Lord William had pressed his face against the juncture where her neck met her shoulder, his lips trailing softly against her skin and leaving invisible brands. 

It was not because she feel the hardness of him against her as he drew her nightgown up. The breathy whine that escaped her lips was from picturing her other husband, the man in her mind that was touching her, surely. Yet as her eyes remained closed and she tried to picture it in her head, the man in her mind’s eye that claimed her was tall and lean, his face angular and sharp under dark curls but his lips soft. And when this phantom husband lifted his head to look at her as he took her, his eyes were piercing and mercurial, twin crystals shifting blue to green to grey and back again.

It was only when he said her name on a broken gasp that she realized her eyes were now open and locked onto his and they stayed that way, locked together physically and in silence, as they made short work of consummating the marriage until moments later Lord William groaned loudly much to his own embarrassment and nearly lost his balance. He caught himself on his forearms above her, no longer looking at her and she cast her up to the top of the bed curtains, her breathing labored as she struggled to get her heartbeat back into control.

“How anti-climatic. But then I suppose it was too much to expect you to have exceeding stamina in this arena, eh, Sherlock?”

Molly felt Sherlock tense up, saw his hands fist the bedclothes until his knuckles turned white. Yet again, a stab of compassion struck her. He might be the sheriff, he might be her enemy, but he was also a pawn to the king. Molly had thought perhaps she was his favorite subject to torture, perhaps she’d had it wrong. 

She gently touch a hand to her husband’s forearm.

“Don’t let him win,” she whispered, again. 

Lord William did not look at her, but he nodded and detangled his limbs for her, leaving her feeling empty, aching and more confused than before she stepped foot into that bed. He readjusted their nightgowns and reached to push the bed curtains aside as he fixed a bored, neutral expression on his face.

“The deed is done, this marriage is legal in full. I thank you your majesty and guests for your well wishings, but now my wife and I would like to sleep.”

“Come, I believe we have a few more casks of mead left to open and the night is still young,” Mycroft quipped, leading the regal revelers out of the chamber.

Only when their footsteps faded away and could be heard no more did Sherlock let the bed curtain drop and moved away to his own side of the bed and laid down turning his back to her. She remained motionless on her back as she stared up at the ceiling. It was in the grip of the looming silence that her emotions came together and stormed the loudest, leaving her confused on how exactly she should have felt about what just happened. Assumably her husband would just scrub it clean from his mind, a trick he mentioned he did to prioritize important facts. What use would he have in holding up and examining a physical event that was such an antithesis to his way of being? How she envied his ability to forget such things.

But what she could not know, as both lay in the quiet stillness trying their to best to ignore each other in the confines of the small space, was the unexpected maelstrom whirling about in Sherlock’s own mind with her as the force of nature behind it. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to update. tl;dr: had some big changes with my job situation post-holidays and my new job requires a two hour daily commute so my free time is less these days. 
> 
> In case you missed it, Molly's wedding clothes are a medieval version of the dress she wore to Rosie's christening.   
> Also from what research I could find, wedding ceremonies back then were more or less that it was agreed on by family, notice put on the church door so if there were any objections it could be raised, go to church, get hitched, drink/eat then bed. Speaking of, the bedding ceremony was a thing. Sometimes a couple did have to have their wedding night fully witnessed, sometimes it was just tucking the couple in and that counted. The former was actually probably still in practice during late 15th century but I took some license in making it an outdated thing in this story.
> 
> Also there's a naughty pun in the chapter title. Blame Shakespeare.


	5. Single-handed Victory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our reluctant bride and groom and the awkward morning after.

 

The pale blue of early drawn began to tinge warm with gold as the sun barely cracked its way towards rising up from the horizon. Sherlock lay awake staring at cloth ceiling of the bed, surrounded by the noise of a bird perched on a nearby tree and the not-so-gentle breathing of his new wife. Sherlock Holmes, married! What a fine jest it had all turned out to be. He half expected the king to burst in any moment now to make sure neither of the newlyweds had fled in the middle of the night.

He looked back over to Margaret, the bedclothes twisted around her legs as she lay curled up on her side. Her nightgown had ridden up on the night, and the pale expanse of a leg was exposed, framed mid-thigh by a scrap of white fabric. He should not stare, it was just a bit of flesh. 

He slid out of bed, grabbing a muslin flannel to clean up from the night before. His actions stirred Margaret from her slumber, as she sat up slowly and ran her hands over her face. He could hear her faint groan, and immediately surmised she was not the type to rise easily in the morning. 

“When one’s life is in a constant state of peril, rest does not come quickly or easily, and when it does it’s hard to want to wake and repeat the cycle,” she murmured, fixing him a pointed glance.

Ah damn, he’d made his observation about her out loud then. He really had to work on that. 

He passed another muslin flannel to let her clean herself up after the previous night’s activities and moved to the window nearby as he worked out what to say next while she tended to herself, wanting to ask how it felt for her. Wanting to not ask lest she thought he truly cared. Wanting to not ask because he did not want to care. But curiosity was like an itch under the skin, and Sherlock could never resist the urge to scratch it.

“Did you find last night...tolerable?”

Setting her flannel aside and moving to sit at the edge of the bed so she could face him, she raised an eyebrow at him.

“It was not as painful as some women whisper, but I daresay the act itself must be highly overrated. Perhaps it is only enjoyable for men, as it seemed to be for you. You seemed to find it more than tolerable if I recall.”

He felt his face flush at her words, not really expecting her reply but at the same time intrigued. She had dispelled entirely with the mask of gentle noblewoman she often wore around others, letting him see that stubborn will of steel that would peek through at times. And right then, with her guard lowered, she found him wanting. As if he should care about her implied criticisms she all but outright said! 

“Do not take offense, my lord, we were both inexperienced and under some duress with an audience. It is expected that this is an area you care not to have expertise in, I had no expectations of such. We had a duty to perform, we have done so. That is all,” she said with a shrug, so nonchalant that he should be grateful that her practical feelings on the matter gave him an easy out to discuss this no further.

But he could not, in fact he found her words incensed him and fanned a sort of anger that began simmer within him. Inexperienced?  _ Lacking expertise?! _

“The rumors of my inexperience have been greatly exaggerated, my lady. I made a study of the carnal act to further my general knowledge and found it a less worthwhile pursuit of time and interest. Do not mistake indifference to lack of expertise.”

“Indifference? I did not realize you thrusting away and then moaning with your mouth hanging open was indifference. Pardon my mistake,  _ William, _ ” she said tartly, and he did not miss that she had left out his title. 

“It was your own indifference that has led you to your obvious disappointment,  _ Margaret _ . You did not go into last night looking for pleasure, and you received exactly what you asked for.”

She rose to her feet, stomping over to him as her eyes burned bright with an anger now matching the strange one in the pit of his stomach.

“Oh? Would you have prefered I lay eager and openly panting like a whore in front of the king? Your brother?”

“No but I did as you asked, I got it over with. Hardly time for finesse.”

She snorted.

“Or perhaps your pride won’t let you admit you fail at this. The Great Sheriff cannot excel at everything? How human.”

His eyes narrowed as the cauldron of hot emotion within him boiled over.

“Shall we test your theory? We are alone now. No king in sight.”

“I thought you had no interest in this.”

He could see color rising in her cheeks, and heard the breathy catch in her voice. At first it gave him pause but he realized quickly it was not from fear but instead her responding to his own counterpoint.

“No, but perhaps you are correct about my pride. Or are you not up for the challenge?”

She moved closer into his space, only a scant few breaths from him. 

“Do your worst, my lord.”

He reached out and took her by the waist, turning her so she stood facing the window with him pressed right behind her, warm and solid.

“Nay, lady,” he breathed into her ear, “I shall do my best.”

He kept one hand on her waist and trailed another slowly up her thigh, the rough texture of his skin sliding along her pale flank, surprisingly lean and with some muscle. Perhaps she rode often. Perhaps he would have her ride him.

_ Stop that _ , the coldly rational part of his mind whispered,  _ you’re only proving a point here. _

As his fingers hitched a fraction higher he could feel her begin to tremble and hear her breathing grow uneven, and he too found his own breaths unsteady against her ear. But oh, from the way she wiggled just so every time a rasp of his breath hit the shell of her ear, she seemed to enjoy it. One of the few women he had bedded in the past had mentioned his was a voice that could make a woman truly swoon in pleasure. Perhaps she had been right. Well then, if he was aiming to prove her wrong it was best to use everything weapon in his arsenal.

“Did you know, Margaret, there are some men at court who like to boast they can make a woman fall apart with only their hands?” He paused, letting his fingers graze over her cunny in a light teasing motion that had her tilting her hips towards his.  “A curious thing, really, as it serves no purpose towards the goal of begetting children. Nonetheless, I conducted several experiments on this and came to some conclusions.”

He watched her grip the windowsill and heard her trying to marshall her words.

“And what did you discover?” she asked, trying to sound indifferent when her body was anything so. He could feel the moisture against his fingertips. 

“That it’s not about duty, it’s about enjoyment of the illicit nature,” he breathed, drawing out the sibilance in his deep timbre, “And a certain pleasure in rendering a woman to come so undone with just a hand.” He had timed the word “pleasure” to coincide with a finger slipping into her warm heat, and a sense of victory began coursing through him when she arched back with a soft moan. 

“And yet, such things are of little interest to you,” she ground out, moving against him. When he was sure she wasn’t in discomfort he added another finger.

“Ah, but that’s not the point of this exercise. It’s about you, my lady,” he bit out, now pressing the heel of his hand against her while he worked his fingers, “Are you still finding my performance merely tolerable?”

Her body trembled, and her breathing began to quicken. She was close to release, chasing it as she tried to control the pace with her hips. But he was in control of this, not her. He tightened his hold on her waist and still his hand.

“Ah ah, my lady, I set the rhythm and not you. It is I whose skill is being judged, after all.”

He could hear her trying to bite back a whine as her grip on the windowsill tightened until her knuckles were white. Suddenly it was important to him to hear her beg, to hear her want it, want him. 

No no, no that. No, of course not. He wanted her to beg so he would win. It mattered not at the end of the day since neither were what each other wanted, and that wasn’t the point of this. What had been the point of this? Proving something to her that supposedly didn’t matter to him anyway? Yet he wanted it more than anything right now, her acquiescence, her surrender to him, to hear her fall apart and know he had rendered her so.

“God’s teeth, William, please!” she cried out.

And then he gave her his best, moving his hand as such a pace she was moaning out her pleasure as her head fell back against his chest and she shook. He felt himself on the verge of shaking as well.

Her moans had faded until the only sound filling the room were birds chirping and their heavy gasps of breath. As she settled down, he moved away from her, grabbing and pulling a black robe quickly.

“Well then, I believe we’re done here and I have proved myself. Do not expect anything more.”

She looked over her shoulder, cheeks red and her eyes narrowed.

“A little enjoyment is not enough to change me, my lord, rest assured I shall not suddenly be throwing myself at your feet.”

“Then we are of an accord. Good day, wife, I shall leave you to dress.”

He moved to leave, but her voice stopped him momentarily.

“Thank you, my lord.”

He did not need to look at her to know she meant it, but he could not face her. Instead he continued his journey out of their room and outside of the manor, dashing to a small nearby pond and hastily removing his clothing. There was no one around, the hour such where anyone was busy working at the manor. The sun had only just begun to rise still, the air chilled. The water would be cold, cold enough, and there was no one to lecture at him that he’d catch illness by allowing his skin to become vulnerable to foul air. He jumped in, feeling the shock of the cold and hoped it would rid the aching hardness in his groin that he’d been hiding from her and had him practically fleeing the room. It had been madness to touch her, madness to have even initiate it, madness to let it flame the long since thought dead ashes of desire he had locked away years ago.

It would not do and so the solution was clear: he’d avoid her the best he could until this brief, strange spell left him and he could return to what mattered the most: the work. 

 

***

 

Molly washed her hands and face with cold water, and continued the ritual of dressing for the day by wiping down with more muslin and combing out her hair. The brief respite of solitude gave her time to think about what had just happened and how she had let it happen. Make no mistake, while her new husband played the dominant role if she had said “stop” she was sure he would have acquiesced. Instead she surrendered to it, losing herself in the fleeting and wild sensations. As much as it had made her see stars behind her eyes she had to agree with it, best not expect more. 

She needed a clear head and besides, he didn’t want her and she did not truly want him either, right? 

No, of course not. An awkward fumble and a pleasurable few minutes wouldn’t change who they were fundamentally: a lawman and an outlaw. They stood on opposite sides of the board, and she had to hold onto that. Put on a dress, put on her false skin, pretend. Never let too much of her true nature out. Do not draw attention. She had already let her mask slip so much already around William, she had to take more care. Perhaps his strange behavior that morning had done her a favor, renewed her purpose. She would of course need to keep some space around him. It was to keep her cover. Nothing more, nothing to do with anything else. 

Over the course of the next week it became clear he was aiding her cause, because he had made himself so scarce in her company that he even avoided his usual pacing about the hall and monologuing mysteries. It was fine, of course, doing her a favor. She could knit it peace, plotting her next moves has her fingers kept busy. Idle hands and all. And if he chose to sleep elsewhere at night? So be it, more bed for herself, a luxury she’d rarely known. 

But a week turned into a fortnight and a full month and she found herself growing restless. Oh, they still had to dine together and occasionally speak, but it was quick moments and fleeting conversation and it had not occurred to her how used to his company she had become since moving into the manor until he had withdrawn it. She did not miss him, why would she? 

In her restlessness she had planned her next move as the Hood, a bigger strike. Irene was back in London, and she could only rely on Greg’s help but it would work. Cutting off a crucial supply wagon heading through the shire. They’d strike at dusk and land a hefty blow to the Crown.

Yet Molly had forgotten one of the first rules Irene had taught her: restless planning often led to reckless results. And unfortunately for her, she was about to learn those consequences.

 


End file.
